


pale blue horizons

by somethingdifferent



Category: The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014)
Genre: Child Death, Divorce, F/M, Gen, also enjoy this w/e, help i've fallen into this crackship and i can't get up, seriously it's a problem, so don't you judge me, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2018-02-04 00:00:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1760205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingdifferent/pseuds/somethingdifferent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Agatha packs up everything she owns in her mother's suitcase (a few dresses and a pair of work shoes and her father's watch and a book of poetry M. Gustave gave to Zero and Zero gave to her and her child's baby clothes, slightly worn) and takes train after boat after train until she reaches the rolling green coast of Ireland.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>An alternate ending for Agatha in five movements.</p>
            </blockquote>





	pale blue horizons

**Author's Note:**

> All the props to [this writer](http://archiveofourown.org/users/vermicious_knid/pseuds/vermicious_knid) whose fics for this movie greatly inspired me to write one of my own.

  

_ Then I shall dream of pale blue horizons, gardens,_

  
_ fountains weeping into alabaster basins,_

  
_ of kisses, of birds singing morning and evening, _

  
_and of all that is most childlike in the Idyl. _

 

Landscape, Charles Baudelaire  
(Translated by William Aggeler)

 

 

 

 

 

 

i.

 

Zero asks her once how she found herself in Zubrowka.

"You're from Ireland, correct? Why the big move?"

Agatha smiles, waves the question away with her flour-covered hand. Kisses him until he forgets what he had asked in the first place.

 

 

 

 

 

The answer is always the same with every place she ends up. Agatha had arrived in Zubrowka by train when she was eighteen, small and fragile-looking and carrying all of her belongings in her mother's suitcase. Except it wasn't her mother's suitcase any longer, and all of her belongings consisted of a few dresses, a pair of work shoes, and her father's watch. She was an orphan. There was her grandfather, yes, and a few odd cousins, but. She was alone in the world, as it would seem. So the pattern goes, whenever someone dies, Agatha finds herself uprooted, shuffled from place to place. Therein lies the problem, as M. Gustave might say. Agatha has never had such a way with words.

 

 

 

 

 

So her son dies. Such a thing might be called unavoidable. Agatha knows better.

"I don't want you getting sick, too," Zero tells her. There are tears in his wide, black eyes. He is sending her away, due to a number of reasons. Her health is failing. The Grand Budapest is failing, what with the first stirrings of war. The country is failing. Europe is failing. The only person who stands as strong and tall as ever is Zero himself, his shoulders squared with the weight of his responsibility toward the hotel. Toward the memory of M. Gustave. Zero is honorable to all but himself.

"I don't want to go away," she says, and even to her ears it sounds half-hearted. Losing a child had taken something out of both of them, though more so with her. It stole something from the two of them. Like a photo album, unable to be recreated or replaced.

"You will be happier in Ireland. You will be safer there. You can get better with your family there. It won't be so cold. It won't be so isolated." He kisses her on the forehead. "I love you. I always will. From Z to A."

Agatha smiles. "I love you, too. From A to Z."

 

 

 

 

 

The marriage had been annulled. Because she is Catholic. Zero had pulled strings to do so. "In case you want to try again," he had said. He hadn't said with him, the way she is sure he wanted to. Always so considerate. Always so kind. And not hers. She gave him back the pendant from around her neck; she couldn't bear its weight any longer.

Agatha packs up everything she owns in her mother's suitcase (a few dresses and a pair of work shoes and her father's watch and a book of poetry M. Gustave gave to Zero and Zero gave to her and her child's baby clothes, slightly worn) and takes train after boat after train until she reaches the rolling green coast of Ireland. It is raining when the train slows to a halt, and her grandfather stands, small and unmoving, in the middle of the platform.

The year is 1934.

It has always seemed so.

She takes a breath and steps off of the car.

 

 

 

 

 

"Hello, Grandfather."

He sizes her up as she approaches, but Agatha does not take offense. James is a suspicious man by nature, and neither of them has seen the other since she was a girl of eighteen. When he still allowed her to call him Grandpa Jamie. When her mother was still alive. Her breath catches in her throat.

His hand reaches for her chin, but before she can flinch away, he turns her head, so he can see her right side. Her birthmark, like the shape of some country she's never been to or seen photographs of. Grandfather smiles, apparently having found her up to snuff. "Aggie," he says at last, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

She cannot be blamed if she starts to cry. Only a little.

 

 

 

 

 

ii.

 

They pass by her parents' old place on the way to her grandfather's house - Agatha can see it from behind the glass of the rickety little car he drives. The windows are curtained, but she can see a yellow flicker of light behind them. She shouldn't feel so surprised, she reminds herself. She had been gone. Her parents had been gone. Of course it wouldn't stay the same.

She wonders how the new residents have changed it. If they kept any of the furniture she left behind. If they are using the old empty picture frames. Then James turns the corner onto another street, and her family's home disappears from sight once again.

 

 

 

 

 

His house is just as she had remembered it - the exact same, as if it had been trapped in time. As if it had been waiting for her. It feels comforting, to know that her grandfather is the same man as he's always been, the same habits and sensibilities and decorative tastes. Zubrowka, despite the people she met there, the job and home she had there, the man she married there, the child - Zubrowka had never felt like home. Not once.

She inhales. There is still the smell of her mother's perfume, like vanilla and sugar, clinging to the drapes.

When Grandfather shows her to her room (second floor, on the left, the door at the end of the hall: the same room she would stay in when she was a child visiting at Christmas), Agatha carefully unpacks her suitcase on the bed. She stores her dresses in the wooden armoire on the wall, tucking her pair of shoes underneath. She sets her father's watch and the book of poetry on her dresser, and gently places her child's clothing - still neatly folded - into the drawer of her nightstand, underneath her grandmother's Bible and rosary beads.

She climbs into bed, pulling the soft pink sheets and the wool comforter back over herself as she squirms into place under the covers. She stares at the flowery wallpaper, the wooden cross hanging over the doorframe, the lace dresses her mother used to wear still hanging beside her own.

For the second time that day, Agatha cries.

 

 

 

 

 

In the morning, she wakes up to the sound of her grandfather shuffling around in the kitchen. She pads down the stairs, wrapping her robe around her as she enters the kitchen.

"Oh no you don't," James says without turning around. "You're meant to rest. You're sick."

"Not so much," she murmurs, rubbing her hands against her arms as she nears. "I do need to eat."

"I'll bring you your food."

"I need to do _something_."

Grandfather smiles softly at her. Understanding. She thinks abruptly that he knows what it's like to lose a child, the same as her. He had been there when her mother died. "I'll bring you a book, darling."

Agatha glances down, her throat tight. "You don't own any."

"I'll get it from the library, then." He turns back to the stove, watching his eggs frying in the pan. Scrambled, the same as always. "Go back to bed. I'll take care of everything."

 

 

 

 

 

The week is a slow one. She reads books, from the library, just as her grandfather promised. She drinks every cup of tea he makes, all with his firm insistence that they will restore her health. She stays away from open windows and only leaves the house on days when it doesn't rain (which is only two of them that week). She graciously accepts the new dresses and skirts and sweaters he buys for her, tailoring them as needed in the comfort of her bed, surrounded by the same flowery walls. On Sunday, she goes to church with her grandfather. The priest welcomes her back to the congregation, and after the mass everyone shakes her hand like she is a soldier returned from war. Half of them call her Aggie, even fewer remember where she had gone. Only Maggie O' Malley offers her condolences. Agatha shakes her hand and smiles and very carefully doesn't scream.

 

 

 

 

 

She gets stronger more easily than she would have at the hotel. She knows this. The air in Ireland is brisk, bracing, and her surroundings are familiar. Even if her health had totally failed her, it wouldn't have taken days to find a doctor in her neighborhood - there is one at the end of the street, the son of Patrick Ahearn, who her father had gone to school with. Zero, as always, was right to send her, even if the days of traveling had worn her out.

She and Zero had both been immigrants, foreigners in a new land. It was part of what had drawn them to each other. The same thing, though, was the reason that she had to leave, and he had to stay.

She calls. Only once. The conversation isn't long, and in it he says only one thing of any importance:

"Will you ever come back?"

She hesitates, though she doesn't need to. She hasn't for a while. "No," she says in reply, "I don't think I will."

She pretends not to notice the catch in his voice when he makes his excuses and hangs up.

 

 

 

 

 

iii.

 

By the end of the month, she has determined that she is well enough to start work again, and Grandfather doesn't disagree enough to actually try to stop her.

The bakery a few blocks over needs a new girl, and Agatha gets the job with little fuss. For the rest of her expenses, Grandfather decides she can work part time as a seamstress at the tailor shop at the end of the street. The two jobs make for full enough days, but she figures it's better that way. By the time she falls into bed at the end of the night, every night, she's too tired to think. Or dream.

 

 

 

 

 

Maggie brings her little girl into the bakery one afternoon, to choose a cake for her birthday. Agatha frosts and decorates the dessert, and she tries her hardest not to watch the child playing on the floor in the window's reflection.

"How old will she be?" she inquires, nodding over to the girl.

"The little dear? Lizzie will be three on Saturday." Maggie smiles dotingly at her charge, and the toddler gurgles in happiness as she slams her sticky hands against the glass cover over the pastries.

Once they leave, Agatha excuses herself and goes out to the back alleyway. She leans against the brick wall, sliding to the ground, not caring for the rocks and dirt that stick insistently to her dress. She stays there until it no longer aches just to move.

 

 

 

 

 

She doesn't open the drawer of her nightstand. She reads the book of poems M. Gustave gave to Zero and Zero gave to her, and she passes her days in the same way she did before the _Boy with Apple_ fiasco, before she ever met the man who would be her husband.

It gets easier, after a while. Like the way callouses build up where she's pricked her finger one too many times with a sewing needle. All things can be gotten used to, she has learned so many times over.

 

 

 

 

 

Towards the end of spring, as the weather is beginning to warm and even the rain feels hot on one's skin, a woman comes into the tailor's and asks for Agatha to fix the hem of her coat.

The black material is coarse and thick, like a winter's cloak, and made for a very tall man.

"Your husband?" Agatha asks idly as she fastens the pins into the fabric. Making conversation, she has found, has done more to secure a customer's return than her sullen silence ever could.

The woman, with her large black eyes like an owl and attire that is ill-suited for the weather, shakes her head gruffly. "My brother," she explains sharply. "I am visiting. He will pick it up himself after I leave."

"Oh, where are you from?"

The woman doesn't answer, merely huffs in impatience and ascertains the time it will be ready. When Agatha gives her an estimate, the woman leaves the shop as quickly as she came. The whole exchange was so curt and impolite as to feel slightly surreal, yet there is still the evidence of a man's winter coat hanging over the back of the chair beside her and the promise of payment by the end of the day tomorrow.

Agatha shrugs, taking up her sewing needle once again and continuing the alterations for Mary Whalen's christening gown.

 

 

 

 

 

He is utterly out of place in the room. This is the first thing Agatha takes note of. It is not surprising, of course. As he is, tall, angular, and draped head to toe in black, from his clothes to his hair to even his eyes, he would look out of place anywhere. Except, perhaps, at a funeral.

He must the the owner of the coat, she thinks faintly, and the brother of the owl-like sister the day before. He has aged, slightly, just as she supposes she has. So often she forgets that she had not stopped doing so the year her mother died. The year her son died.

For a moment she cannot recall his name. Then: "Dmitri."

He turns just as Agatha stands at her chair, determinedly not shaking. His black eyes widen momentarily.

"You," he says, though the word doesn't seem to leave his mouth quite as angrily as he had intended.

 

 

 

 

 

iv.

 

"What are you doing here?"

"Where?" He glances around the shop, as if the answer lies beneath a pincushion or behind the pink and yellow curtains. "In Ireland?"

She nods. "In Ireland."

"I needed a place to go." She raises an eyebrow, as if she needs to convey her disbelief in a more visual manner. "Some place where they actually fucking speak English." At her stare, Dmitri finally glances down. His hands twitch against his side.

"I liked your accent," he says quietly. "I thought it might be nice here."

 

 

 

 

 

After he pays, she tugs him outside, aware of her boss watching their exchange at her chair in the back room, and doesn't even feel bad when he stumbles slightly over the step at the door.

"Did you know I was here?" she demands.

"No."

"Will you leave?"

He laughs, pulling on his coat. In it, he looks even more strange and shadowy against the backdrop of the just blooming flowers and pale sky. "Fuck no."

She groans, dropping her head against her chest. In his first smart move since seeing her again, Dmitri doesn't say a word.

 

 

 

 

 

"Can I buy you a drink?" he asks finally, after she's worn herself out pacing the length of the building's front.

She narrows her eyes at him, and he shrinks back slightly. It has been her specialty since she was a child, this ability to make a person afraid, or simply unnerved, at a single glance. "Is this a flirtation?"

"Jesus, fuck - no. I just wanted to catch up."

"I'm fairly certain we're sworn enemies. I believe Zero has used those exact words on numerous occasions."

"Well I never have."

"You tried to shoot me."

"Not really."

She looks him over, trying to determine if he's telling the truth. "Alright," she agrees finally. "But you're paying."

He smirks. "I would expect nothing less."

 

 

 

 

 

He ends up buying her dinner, at one of the few nice restaurants nearby. He waves it off as being closer to evening than afternoon, and the whole thing is too unreal for Agatha to summon the energy to argue with him about it.

Most of the first half-hour consists of stilted small talk and prolonged silence; however, when the plates are finally brought out from the kitchen, Dmitri ignores them, leaning forward across the table.

"What happened to your husband?" From the look in his eyes, she can tell he clearly had been waiting to ask this.

"What?" He is looking at her too intently, as if he could see right through her if he focused hard enough.

"Yeah, didn't you marry the concierge?" He downs the rest of his drink, so fast it must hurt. At least a little.

"Oh, that." She fiddles absentmindedly with the hem of her skirt. A thread is coming loose at the seam, pink and thin and frayed. She'll need to fix it when she gets home. "I left."

He furrows his brow. "Jesus."

"Our son died."

"Jesus," he repeats.

The thread comes loose in her hand. "Yeah."

They're both quiet for a moment, then, "What was his name?"

"Who? Zero?"

"No." His eyes, she realizes, aren't quite black. They're too deep for that, warm and dark. Black would be putting it too simply. "Your son."

"Oh." She clears her throat. "John. Johnny. It was my father's name."

"I'm sorry," he says, and his voice is more sincere than she's ever heard it.

"Me too."

He only starts to eat when she does, and the little gesture is enough to make Agatha like him for the moment.

 

 

 

 

 

"You do have enough, right? To pay?"

"Of course, don't insult me." He waves the waiter over, and the gesture is clearly familiar, as if he's done it a thousand times before, in a thousand restaurants nicer than this.

"Good." She smooths her hand over the back of her skirt as she stands. The movement is self-conscious, too aware, and she stops herself almost as soon as she starts. "I never felt right, using someone else's money."

"You're probably the only one," he remarks, almost thoughtfully, and holds open the door for her. She steps outside, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders as the wind hits her, and Dmitri continues walking in her direction, apparently not paying any mind to his cue to leave. "So you're from here?"

She glares up at him. He's so much taller than her, she had forgotten in the restaurant when they were both sitting. He could probably snap her in half if the impulse struck him. "I thought we were quite caught up, just like you wanted."

"Yeah, but - " He falls behind for a moment, narrowly avoids running into a dog leashed to a street lamp, and has to walk faster to match her speed again. "You're the only person I know here."

"I don't want to be your friend," she says, pausing in the middle of the sidewalk. It's a busy time of day, and people stream past the two of them, some knocking into her shoulder as they pass. He, she notices, is never once nudged. In fact, the crowd gives him a wide berth, the laws of traffic working perfectly in his favor.

"Why not?" he asks petulantly, almost like a child.

"You're not a nice person."

"How? Give me one example."

She doesn't have to think long. "You hated your mother."

"She hated me first," he volleys back.

"You killed people."

"I hired someone who _happened_ to kill people."

"It's the same thing."

He reflects on that for a moment. "I don't think so."

She purses her lips, unamused.

"Would it help if I said I was sorry?"

"Only if you mean it."

His mouth turns up at the corners. Like something she said was very funny. "You're a good person, aren't you? I hadn't noticed it before. The name isn't ironic or anything."

The sentiment throws her off-kilter for a second. It makes her ignore the fact that he had changed the subject. "My name?"

"Agatha. It's Greek. It means good. Or noble, whatever the fuck you want." He shrugs. "Not many people are anymore."

They're still unmoving, but Agatha doesn't pay it any mind. A woman, brushing through with a gaggle of children and a large purse, nearly sends her sprawling, but Dmitri stops her from falling over at the last second. He puts her to rights easily, and picks a leaf out of her hair. He opens his palm, letting it flutter to the ground.

In a fit of something she won't be able to name later, Agatha holds out her hand. He takes it, confused, and waits for her to speak.

She doesn't. She simply drops her hand once again and moves forward, letting herself become swallowed up by the crowd. Dmitri doesn't follow after her this time, and she's sane enough at the moment to feel grateful for it.

 

 

 

 

 

v.

 

Dmitri still has money, she knows. She passes by his house sometimes (it's along her route, as long as she doesn't mind lengthening her travel time a few minutes), and it's as bleak and frightening as his mansion had been, though a fair amount smaller.

On the third instance she passes by on her way home from the bakery, she gathers the courage to go up the stairs to the large, black door. The knocker is a heavy kind, old and iron, with a face in the metal like that of some terrible beast, with blank eyes and sharp teeth. The whole affair suits him well, she thinks, ruthless and cold-blooded as he is. As Zero had always said he is.

Before she can talk herself out of it, her hand is tapping on the door, almost of its own accord. Before she can leave, he has opened it, startling her enough to make her forget what she had planned on saying. The act seems out of place, until she remembers that he no longer has servants to do such menial tasks.

"Agatha." He doesn't seem shocked to see her. As if reading her mind, he continues, "I can see you from the window, you know."

She opens her mouth, only to close it again like a fish. Before he can say another word, she turns, striding purposefully down the stone path and back onto the street. When she chances a look back, she can see Dmitri standing in the doorframe. She can't tell from so far away, but he seems almost to be laughing.

 

 

 

 

 

They aren't quite friends. Such a venture would probably require Agatha to actually like him more than half of the time they meet. As it is, she thinks they're closer to  _sworn-enemies-turned-reluctant-allies-and/or-acquaintances_. But that title is too long, so when Grandfather asks who of all people she is going to lunch with on a Friday afternoon, she tells him it's a friend and that is the end of that.

 

 

 

 

 

She goes to Mary Whalen's baptism, since she is invited. They were right to bring the gown to her, though even with her expert tailoring it still fits a little large. Mary, the poor thing, had been born nearly two months before she was meant to be, and is smaller than any baby Agatha has ever seen, though fortunately just as healthy.

James sits through the service with her, grumbling about how there had better be food after, damn it ("Grandfather, we're in a church!"), and Agatha tears up a little when the baby laughs as the water is spilled over her soft head. But only a little.

Later, at the small gathering that isn't quite a party, Catherine asks if Agatha would like to hold her daughter, just for a moment, while she gets something to eat.

"Alright," she replies uncertainly, and Cathy sighs in relief, handing the child over and skipping off to the dessert table.

Mary looks up at her with her wide, green eyes. She is smaller than Johnny had been, with less hair. It's downy and red as fire, growing out in wild tufts. The girl laughs - happy as anything to be in Agatha's arms - and reaches her chubby hands out to pat against her braid.

Agatha doesn't cry, for some reason she'll examine later, in the quiet of her room, with the nightstand drawer open and her son's clothes in her arms. Instead, she smiles, and Mary giggles again.

 

 

 

 

 

He takes her out drinking, once. She isn't sure what to expect, except that she'll most certainly drink him under the table. Zero had always gotten drunk so easily, and M. Gustave had rarely had anything more than champagne or expensive wines with dinner. Yet Dmitri holds his own with her, explaining only that family gatherings had always called for something stronger than what was served.

By the third drink, her tongue has loosened enough for her to ask, "Am I still the only person you know here?" The question comes from morbid curiosity, and she's just far enough gone that she doesn't feel silly for it. If he's spoken to anyone else, anyone else at all, then perhaps he will leave her alone at last.

She's surprised to realize that the idea doesn't make her as happy as it should.

"Well." He tilts his head to the side, considering how to respond. "You're the only person I _want_ to know here."

She flushes, and it isn't entirely from the alcohol. Dmitri only laughs, and orders another round.

 

 

 

 

 

It's a Sunday. That is what she remembers most clearly later, the detail that seems the most important.

She and Grandfather return from mass by ten, just as with every week, though on this occasion, Dmitri is at the house before they are. He paces in front of the gate, looking up as they approach and smiling slightly.

He greets them amicably, even shaking James' hand as he introduces himself as her friend. He can be quite charming when he wants to be. Agatha hadn't really realized.

"I was wondering," he says slowly, as if he hasn't quite figured out what he wants to ask, "if you'd like to go for a walk and get something to eat."

She nods, inclining her head to signal to her grandfather that he should go inside. The old man winks at her as he leaves, and Agatha finds herself blushing at the implications.

If Dmitri notices, he doesn't say a word. "Shall we go?"

It's summer, so the trees are all fully in bloom. Still, Dmitri is covered head to toe in black, as if he doesn't feel any of the heat. Agatha, for her part, has abandoned her usual shawl, and wears only her dress and a pair of shoes Grandfather bought for her.

He leads them over to a bench, where the trees are thickest. It's quiet, as everyone is either asleep or at the later service. Not even the sound of his own inane chatter fills the silence. It's unusual, and Agatha turns, about to ask him what's wrong when he leans forward and kisses her.

After a beat, she closes her eyes, decides  _to hell with it_ , and responds in kind. His hands, stronger than she would have expected, draw her to him, one around her waist and the other at the nape of her neck. She keeps hers at his chest, tugging at the lapels of his coat to bring him closer. Apparently encouraged, Dmitri presses forward, opening his mouth, and she mirrors him, gasping into the kiss. She certainly hasn't done this in a while, she thinks faintly, as his hand drops lower at her waist. She shifts her legs toward his, and her stockings catch on a loose nail, tearing them behind her knee.

The sudden movement reminds her of where they are, the position she's in with - she doesn't quite know what to call him. She pushes him away, one hand resting under his shoulder, her mouth still ajar.

Dmitri is completely still, like a wild animal that doesn't want to alert a predator to its whereabouts. "Can we pretend that didn't happen?" he asks, almost desperately. Not quite though. She thinks that his family could never quite master desperation, not even if they tried.

She thinks on it for a brief second. His hands are still frozen around her, his fingers curled. She can feel his nails against her neck, and she shivers. "No," she replies, a little too quickly.

"Oh." He moves back finally, dropping his hands as he waits for her to continue. When she doesn't, he glances away, looking around himself as if just noticing his surroundings. The sun, the trees, the iron handles of the bench. After a long moment, he meets her eyes again.

"We can't pretend it didn't happen," she says softly.

His eyes shift slightly to the side as he thinks of how to respond. "Alright."

She nods. "Alright."

She smiles, and, after a moment, he smiles back.

Agatha isn't sure which of them first reaches for the other's hand, but neither lets go.

 

 

 


End file.
